


Storied Ceilings

by Madredhattie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madredhattie/pseuds/Madredhattie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lighthearted Carpathian Brothers fluff set in 1871, with slight hints of Prurom if you so desire. Written as a birthday gift!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storied Ceilings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vampirecaligula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirecaligula/gifts).



> This was written for Kahl on her birthday and posted on tumblr, and is being cross-posted here.
> 
> Set in 1871. Ciprian is Moldova.

Ciprian had proven fairly difficult to get dressed up properly for the coronation. Around his brother, the boy was energetic and excitable, always eager to tell him of the latest perfectly shaped leaf he’d discovered outside or how the spring fledglings had grown. But in a crowd of unfamiliar faces speaking foreign languages the boy would turn shy. And his simplistic tastes did not help matters.

“I don’t want to wear this. It’s itchy,” Ciprian complained, pulling at the collar of the offending shirt. “Why can’t I wear my clothes?”

“Because I don’t want Prussia declaring war on me for bringing an underdressed sibling to _his_ brother’s big day,” Romania replied. The boy had a point, though, he thought as he turned to straighten his own collar. Their attire, sent to the pair by Prussia shortly before they had left for Versailles, was very much for show more than comfort. Of course Prussia would demand a following of protocol to the letter for this.

Ciprian frowned. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“Probably not, but he might try to beat me with my own arm.” He settled the collar to the best of his ability. If that didn’t meet Prussia’s exacting standards, the man could come dress him himself. “What, you think he wouldn’t- Ciprian!”

The boy had taken the opportunity to wriggle out of his dress shirt while Romania’s back was turned and was now pulling on his own plain top. Catching his brother’s eye, Ciprian put on a defiant pout.

“This shirt knows me, so it doesn’t make me itch. It _likes_ me.”

Romania laughed in spite of himself. Had he ever been this way as a child? No, no he hadn’t. He’d never had the chance. The man scooped up the discarded clothing and held it out. “Give this one a chance, it might warm up to you and stop being itchy.”

“No.”

“You’re going to make the shirt sad.”

“It shouldn’t’ve made me itchy first.”

This was going to be an interesting discussion.

 

* * *

 

After nearly an hour of coaxing, bribery (“You can have as many sweets as you want tonight, I’ll make sure the Princess doesn’t catch you,”), straightening of clothes and vain attempts to tame those two particular tufts of hair, Romania declared them both presentable enough. He now stepped in to the great Hall of Mirrors, only slightly concerned that Ciprian’s iron grip on his hand would break bones.

Romania was no stranger to palaces, but never before had he set foot in a hall so grand. Sweeping arches, dangling chandeliers, and elegant paintings decorated the length of the room, which echoed with the many voices of German nobility. There was a small gasp at his side; Ciprian’s eyes were wide open and drinking in the surroundings, the crowds temporarily forgotten.

The whole of Europe seemed to have turned out for the ceremony. As the brothers walked in, Romania began picking out faces from the crowd. The Italian brothers, recently unified themselves and chattering rapidly near one of the great mirrors in the hall. Austria and Hungary were sitting demurely together, husband and wife, and a very strange sight for those who had known the latter during her younger days. The look she had shot at Romania for a brief moment, though, made it very clear that married life had not changed her at all, and that she had _not_ appreciated the ‘letter of condolences’ Romania sent her after the wedding.

Even little Liechtenstein, who had left the Confederation to strike out on her own, was present, and of course France, fuming silently off to the side. He did not like one bit that he was hosting the coronation of his most recent enemies in warfare. Romania thought it a great joke, he’d told Prussia last night, and was half-considering proposing a similar affair to his own monarchs, to take place in Istanbul once he finally broke completely from the Ottoman Empire’s rule (and he would, damn it. The world was shifting, it could only be a matter of time now.)

But that was for a later time. This day was for Prussia, his king, and for the declaration of a new nation: the German Empire. Ludwig had sprung up like a weed in the past few years, a testament to the efforts of his brother. The boy – no, a young man now – stood beside his brother and his soon-to-be emperor, watching the crowd with a quiet gaze; his nobles, there for Wilhelm, and the nations, his enemies and allies alike.

Prussia wanted all of Europe to know who his brother was.

 

* * *

 

The coronation was grand, with fanfares and celebrations, speeches and cheers, and then the presentation of the newly declared German Empire himself, and Romania found himself translating, for Ciprian’s benefit, the entire affair. The child needed to learn more than Romanian and Russian and the scant amount of French he was picking up from the prince and princess. It was early evening by the time the fanfare had ended and the real celebration (in Romania’s mind) began, with food and drinks and seats brought out.

Predictably, Ciprian met the idea of learning more languages with a groan, and a reminder that he had been promised all the sweets he could possibly want in exchange for tolerating the itchy clothing, which apparently had refused to apologize for being so itchy and deserved to be sad. So with a plate piled high with selected delicacies and a much needed drink for a throat that had been speaking quiet a great deal, the pair located a small table away from where prying royalty might put a stop to the impending devouring of treats by one small nation.

Away from the main crowds, Ciprian became chattier, asking Romania about the paintings on the ceilings and what stories they were telling. Soon Romania was weaving fanciful tales about the artwork that greatly improved upon the actual meanings.

“You wear the House of Hohenzollern well.”

He was in the middle of a longwinded plot about how one particular figure was, in fact, a _moroi_  whom the Sun King had to defeat to save the people of France when Prussia slipped into the chair Ciprian had recently vacated in favor of his brother’s lap.

Romania grinned. “And I’d wear it even better if it weren’t so itchy.”

“They’re itchy because they don’t like us,” Ciprian added helpfully.

“That too.”

Prussia stared at them both for a moment before deciding it was best not to question the strange logic and shrugged. “Couldn’t have you embarrassing me in some costume you pulled together yourselves. Not that you would do that to _me_ , of all people.”

“I would.”

Prussia laughed. Gone was the strict perfectionism of the military, with the coronation and presentation of the German Empire finished. He leaned back in the chair, the candlelight flickering off the medals decorating his uniform. “I’ve given you quite a bit. New rulers, new stability, new clothes. A little gratitude would be nice.”

“We nearly didn’t get these clothes, you know. Arrived only a day before we left Bucharest. No time at all for any adjustments.” Romania mock-glared at the other man. “Did you learn that little trick from Bismarck?” Prussia merely cracked a smirk.

Ciprian had been in his own thoughts for a bit, but now he pulled a pastry from his collection and offered it to Prussia. “This is for you, because you gave us things,” he stated solemnly, with all the airs of one bestowing a great boon upon a nation rather than a simple tart that had likely been paid for by German funds. Romania snorted with laughter at the bemused expression on Prussia’s face as he accepted the treat; Ludwig hadn’t been anything like this, clearly.

Prussia took a bite, making a show of thoughtfully chewing the pastry up, before declaring, “I accept your token of gratitude, Ciprian. Now, what will your brother give me?”

Ciprian pulled the remaining sweets closer to himself as Romania simply responded, “My undying love and affection. Really, though, I thought you’d know that by now.”

Prussia slapped a hand to his forehead. “Of course, how could I forget?” He eyed the plate Ciprian was carefully hoarding, still stacked with treats. “You’re not letting him eat all that, are you?” he asked. “You’ll spoil him.”

“Gilbert, it’s the only way I could get him to wear the uniform without sewing him into it myself.”

“It can’t be that bad. And I’ve seen what you call ‘sewing’, you’d end up ruining it.”

“Exactly. Either that or the pastries, so I picked the easier one.”

The Prussian shook his head. “As those were the only two options available. Right,” he stood up, “well I’ve got a younger brother to see to myself. And Mircea?” he slipped into German. “Have you figured out who he is yet?”

Romania glanced down at the boy in his lap. “Not quite. But I might have an idea.”

“Mm.” And with that, Prussia left. Romania watched, a small smile on his face.

“What’d he say to you?” Ciprian piped up.

“Eh? Oh,” Romania poked his little brother, “he told me _you_ need to learn German.”

“That’s not what he said!”

“How do you know? You don’t speak German.”

The boy made an attempt at pouting, but it broke into a wide yawn. No surprise there; it had been a very busy day, especially for a young nation of unknown identity.

“Getting tired?”

“Mm-hm.” Ciprian turned and wrapped his arms around Romania’s neck, burying his face into his brother’s shoulder. Romania stood, carrying his little brother with ease, used to the chokehold by now.

He caught Prussia’s eye briefly, the other nation standing next to the new German Empire. A nod at the bundle of sleeping child in his arms and a broad smile – he’d return once Ciprian was properly put to bed, for drinks or more.

Outside the hall Ciprian stirred briefly.

“Mircea?”

“Yes?”

“We should build a castle with stories on the ceiling.”


End file.
